Psycho
by QuothZan
Summary: Grissom worries as Sara questions just how sane she really is after spending a few hellish nights working a case at a mental institute. Committed cowrite fic. GSR.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' Notes: This is Zan1781 and QTR! We decided to write a joint fic together since we have spent forever role-playing and writing with each other! This fic takes place during Committed, and Zan wrote Grissom's POV bold, and QTR wrote Sara's normal, and Brass' italic!**

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_So I wake up this morning- same old routine. I'm sitting in the kitchen drinking a warm cup of coffee; the good stuff, not that fake stuff the state provides for local law enforcement. Unfortunately I didn't get up early enough- or go to bed late enough- in order to get first dibs at the Krispy Kreme, so I had to settle for some pastries that I picked up at the local supermarket._

I'm sitting at the table reading the newspaper sipping my coffee and eating my breakfast; I try to savor these few moments I have in the mornings to myself before the sound of my cell phone going off calls me back to the station, or to another crime-scene.

Today the sound of my cell phone ringing was unusually early. I picked up my phone and headed back to the station to conduct a few interrogations regarding some assholes picked up off the Strip the night before. If you want my god-honest opinion, their alibis sucked- each and every one of them. The case was solved in a heartbeat- boom, boom, and boom- Suspect cracks, cops arrest them, and they're taken off to booking.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my job, but there are those days when even a dedicated homicide detective such as myself has had quite enough of the same old thing from time-to-time. I'm not giving some psycho on the street permission to commit some freakish crime of some sort, I just wish that now and again these guys that we've caught before who have been released for good behavior, or are on parole can get it through their thick skulls that if it didn't work the first time, it's not going to work the second time.

Finishing up the case, I looked down at my wristwatch just in time to see that I could grab an early dinner- even though it was about 10:45-and hopefully before I got another call to a new crime-scene.

Just as I was about to take a bite of my dinner plate at the local Denny's down the street, the shrill shrieking sound of my cell phone interrupts my meal; god I need to change that ring tone. With a sigh I pick up my phone and answer it as I always do- calmly and professionally. It was Gil- I figured his shift must've been starting- and I listen to what he has to say, figuring that I'm just going to another hit-and-run scene, or a robbery of some sort.

He tells me we're going to Desert State Hospital. Well, that was a surprise.

I left some money on the table, got in my car and drove off. The pitter-patter of rain drops hitting the windshield surprised me; I wasn't expecting it to rain now, let alone any time soon. I heard a crack of thunder in the distance as I pulled up to the hospital- how fitting. This place definitely left a lot to be desired. Blindingly white outer walls, tiny windows, gated fence around the place topped off with a cantina. 

I got out of my car and headed to the entrance where soon Gil and Sara Sidle met me.

And then we walked inside.

**I am privileged enough to have an office, with a door, and a desk… which is covered in mounds of paperwork for me to complete. I am privileged enough to have shelves, with jars of unique scientific items, and books… which help me find the answers to solve extremely difficult cases… when they come up. And most importantly, I am privileged enough to lead an exceptional group of individuals, each with their own unique identities and personalities, who help make the Las Vegas Lab one of the best labs in the country. It is my job, as supervisor, to figure out which CSI is best equipped to handle which case, and to encourage him or her to follow the evidence to the truth. As always, this is something that is easier said than done.**

**Walking into the lab, I can't help but frown at the weather. Rain… thunder… lightning. I know that it will probably be a slow night, and for that, I am truly thankful. I think. With rain comes a decrease in crime, and with a decrease in crime comes the "opportunity" to do paperwork. And although I do not consider paperwork to be the most important part of my job, Conrad Ecklie, my boss, certainly does. So I suppose that every once in awhile, I need to appease him.**

**Sitting at my desk, I sigh, as I get to work. Performance reviews, evidentiary files, case notes… all important, but all… tiring. Frowning, I glance up at the clock. 12:30. The night is young, and my eyes are… well, they're not old!**

**Grabbing a new file, and opening up to a clean page in my notebook, I almost jump, as my phone rings. Without hesitating, I immediately pick it up, biting my lip. "Grissom…" I say. "Where? Desert State Hospital? Okay… we'll be there in thirty minutes. Yes, I understand. Thank you," I add, immediately hanging up, and thinking things through.**

**Sighing, I once again frown. On most nights, this is where I would analyze the strengths and weaknesses of my team, choosing the best person for the job at hand. Glancing down at my desk, I lightly tap my pen on the folder, as I think. Sara Sidle, Greg Sanders, or Sofia Curtis. Which one do I want to bring with me? Although all three criminalists are capable, and I would trust my life, or rather, my death… in all of their hands, the Desert State Hospital is not the type of place that I would want to bring any of them. Greg, with his youthful exuberance, tends to be unpredictable, and… unpredictability can set off people in a mental institution. Sofia, with her strength in analyzing, is better off in the lab. And as for Sara…? Well, I worry about her… a lot. For many different reasons. On many different levels.**

**So… despite the fact that Desert State Hospital is known for housing the criminally insane, and the sexually violent predators, I decide to have Sara accompany me on this particular case. I only hope that my doing so does not harm her in any way. **

As a rookie, I was told a lot of things before I went out in the field as a CSI. I was told to always have a firearm on me, for one, and something else that I was told was to expect the unexpected. At the time…I'm not sure what my problem was. I had seen a lot of things in my lifetime- all of it even before I became a CSI and went into this line of work- so I must've thought nothing would surprise me. Maybe I was just young and naïve, or…maybe I was just being stubborn, as always.

I knew what I was going to encounter in this profession would not be happy or cheerful, and I knew that the discussion of how my day was would be a rather morbid discussion at the dinner table. So…if I knew what to look out for, why did I have so much trouble with cases? I knew why…and I knew there was a perfectly understandable reason for it, but…for now I'll settle with Grissom's theory- I'm just empathetic. For now, that's a good enough answer for everyone else.

Grissom just called me about fifteen minutes ago and told me we had a homicide at Desert State Hospital. I'm driving along the interstate at about twenty miles an hour, and at the moment I'm not sure why exactly I'm going so slow- because of the sudden rainstorm, or because I just really don't want to go to this place? Unfortunately the road is unusually empty tonight and all the lights I hit were green.

I drove up to the hospital and tried to compose myself before I entered the building. This looks so similar…so similar to the building they took _her_ to.

Before getting out of my car, I take a deep breath and tell myself, "It's just empathy."

**Eager as always, I walk up to the entranceway of the hospital, glancing at my surroundings. This place reminds me of a prison… no, worse than a prison. The walls are white and stark; the reception area is sterile; and the use of doors with very tiny windows is just… constricting.**

**But when I get to the hospital, Brass is already waiting for me, and we exchange pleasantries… although really, what can be so pleasant about standing in the middle of a building, with criminals that even the jails don't want, having the power to roam the building at will?**

**Okay, that thought makes me a little bit uneasy. Glancing over my shoulder, I scan the room, just… to make sure. And then Sara arrives. She looks…nervous to me. I don't know why, but… I feel like she is just… scared. I'll have to keep my eye on her. **

I walk up to the entrance to the hospital and meet up with Brass and Grissom. Not really making eye-contact with either of them, I take a look around at our surroundings.

Looking over at the doors of the hospital entrance, I take a look inside through the clear glass. There appears to be almost three or four barriers blocking the area where the actual inmates- patients…- are located. Gates on the doors…why are there gates on the doors? This isn't supposed to be a prison…though I realize that all of the patients here are criminally insane and sexually violent predators.

I frown as a man walks out of the building to show us inside and escort us around to ensure we're safe. I didn't mean to, but I double-checked my holster on my hip to make sure my gun was still in place. Good, it was.

We walk through the glass doors leading inside and I am immediately assaulted with some stench- both foreign and yet familiar to me. It smells like many things…the actual smell was like a mixture of dirty and clean laundry thrown into one hamper, but I could tell this foul odor was just a cover-up for what lie beneath the surface. It smells like anger…violence, confusion, fear, lies, and insanity.

_Well, that was a surprise, wasn't it?_ I ask myself.

After passing through the doors leading to the hallways the patients inhabited, we round a corner leading to one last door. I felt a bit vulnerable…maybe even a bit frightened. As soon as we walked through this door, who knew what lay ahead. 

"…keep your kits locked and closed when not in use." I hear the man speaking to us as I come back to reality. "Ms. Sidle, best if you remove the vest. New uniforms upset them."

I sighed and set my kit down near my feet. Now that's just one more layer I'm without; less protection.

After removing my CSI vest the door opens and we walk into the hallway.

**I have to admit, the longer we spend in the hospital, the more uncomfortable I become. The air just smells… stagnant; like sweaty socks that haven't been washed in months, mixed in with something clean smelling… _disinfectants?_** **I wonder to myself. Must be. With a frown, I nod at Sara, and follow both her and Brass down the corridor to one of the main hallways.**

**We don't get very far, however, as I hear people shuffling down the hallway. A lot of people, actually… what's going on? Are they…moving the…patients for some reason? I shrug, as our guide tells us to stop, and put our backs against the wall... it's standard procedure, he tells us. But…put our backs against the wall? Why is that a standard safety procedure…? Do I even _want _to know why? My guess is that I probably do not… again, it probably has something to do with the caliber of the residents in this… facility.**

**I frown, as our guide tells Sara something about removing her vest. But I don't _want _Sara to remove her vest. Her vest keeps her safe, and… without it…that is just one less layer that she'll have against… well, whatever. But then I frown. _Honestly, Gil, Sara doesn't need any protection…_** **I tell myself. _She'll be fine here… _So with a sigh, I watch as she does what the guide says, leaving her discarded uniform behind. Great.**

**In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't the best idea to bring Sara on this case with me. She still looks… terrified. She's trying to hide her fear, I can tell, but she keeps moving her jaw… and when she moves her jaw, or bites her lip, she's scared. And her fear makes me nervous. Very, very nervous.**

**I'll have to keep my eye on her. **

"Oh, uh…could you actually stop here and put your backs against the wall, please," the man from before tells us. As if for reassurance, he tells Brass, "It's, uh, standard safety procedure." Soon doing the same, we looked on as a line of people headed past us, not unlike a line of train cars.

Keeping my kit held in front of me, I look at each person walking by- all male, none that approximately looked the same age as another. One of the patients looks over at me and tilts his head back in the air, sticking his tongue out of his mouth and moving it in an obscene gesture. I just stared at him for a moment- I needed to reassure myself that he was there, I was here. I was safe, Brass and Grissom were right beside me and I had my gun.

"Jake, put your tongue in your mouth," I hear someone- obviously a hospital employee- say. The row of patients finally disappears around the corner, but this Jake guy apparently saw something he liked because he didn't stop looking at me. I take a deep breath. I think I held my breath as the patients walked past us, but this Jake guy apparently saw something he liked because he didn't stop looking at me.

We walk down the hallway into an empty room where we're introduced to the Desert State Hospital staff.

"This is Captain Brass," our guide- actually the hospital administrator- introduces Brass. "Dr. Grissom and Ms. Sidle are from the Crime Lab."

And so it began.

**Standing in front of the hospital administer, I try to focus on what he is telling me. But my attention is still back on Jake, and what he did to Sara while he and his fellow patients walked down the hallway. I mean, he stuck his tongue out at her! He actually stuck his tongue out at her, and did something with it that would have made even my mother blush. I glanced over at Sara while Jake was… staring at her, and I frowned. She looked...uncomfortable, at the very least. I wanted to reach a hand out to her, to tell her that it would be okay, but… knowing Sara, she would not have appreciated the gesture. So I said nothing. And I did nothing.**

**So here we are, speaking with several of the hospital's staff members. As the nurses are talking, I can't help but take another look around… and I notice that Sara is doing the same thing. Although this is a hospital, I frown, I can't help but once again compare the patients to inmates. In fact, I perk up with interest, as I hear Jim ask if the patients are locked in their rooms at night, and I bite my tongue, as I hear the hospital administrator claim that the patients all have free rein… okay, so these people, regardless of what they have done, are better off than inmates. Interesting.**

**Sighing, we all follow the staff members to isolation, where I watch them restrain Kenny, the man who had been found covered in Robbie's blood. But something isn't right. There's something wrong with his clothes… **

We walk into a room where I hear pained grunts and screams. Kenny, one of the patients at the hospital, was being restrained by one of the side-techs and nurses…as well as some leather straps that ran across his chest and around his ankles and wrists.

I watch this man struggle…struggle for his freedom, and I can't help but feel a bit more uncomfortable than I had already. For at this moment, it's not this…Kenny guy I see being restrained. It's my mother. It's not his voice that I hear…it's hers.

Snapping back to reality, I go back into CSI-mode. "How did he get those wounds?" I ask, noting several bloodied-scratches on his arms.

"He suffers from Redfield-syndrome," Leon- judging by the name on his nametag- informs us. "Gets off on blood."

I turn around and shoot Grissom a look and I instantly know what he's thinking. Those wounds were obviously not sustained during a struggle, and there is no blood spatter on Kenny's clothes. This man is definitely not our guy.

**In fact, there's something wrong with more than just Kenny's clothes. His wounds appear to be… self-inflicted, and as a result of the restraints themselves. Not something that he could have received from a struggle.**

**But before I can ask a question to that effect, Sara beats me to it. "How did he get those wounds…?" she asks the hospital's employees.**

**And I listen to Leon's answer about Redfield-syndrome, before glancing over at Sara. Again, interesting, I think, as she tosses me her own look.**

**So now it's my turn to ask a question. The clothes… they still bothered me. "He was wearing these clothes when you found him?" I ask… just to confirm what I already assumed.**

"**Yes," Nanette Faber, one of the nurses, simply replies.**

**Nodding at Sara, I silently ask her to follow me outside of the room. We have a lot of things to discuss, and… I'd rather do it with her, alone. "There was blood spatter all over the victim's room…" I finally say to her.**

"**Blood but no spatter on Kenny's clothes," she replies. **

**I inwardly smile, because I know that Sara is thinking along the same lines as I am. "I'm not sure this is our guy…" I admit.**

**Looking around, Sara returns her gaze to me. "Locked unit. Finite number of suspects."**

**I can't help but give a small smile, as I stare down the hallway. "Crazy or not... here we come." **

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TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **Thank you to all who reviewed, we really appreciate it! This is chapter two; Zan wrote Grissom in bold and Brass in italic, and QTR wrote Sara in the normal font.**

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**It still boggles my mind that we are investigating a crime at a mental institution. I'm not… thrilled with the prospect of interviewing criminals, but… what else can I do? Standing beside Brass, I quietly watch the patients interact with one another. Three people—Jake, an inmate, and Charles Pellew—are all playing cards with one another, while Ronald Salter stares at nothing, and Adam Trent reads a book.**

**A part of me is curious to know what Adam is actually reading, although…before I can get a close enough look at the book, Brass interrupts my train of thought. "Who's this guy knitting an imaginary sweater?" he asks me. "How's he know when it's finished?"**

**I look over at the inmate in question, and sigh. Earl Simmonds. "His brain tells him that what he's doing is real. He has no reason to doubt it," I matter-of-factly inform Brass. No reason to doubt it, what-so-ever. I frown, as I continue to watch Simmonds knitting his sweater. I can cite example after example of brilliant individuals who have paranoid delusions, or who see things that aren't really there, but I settle on John Nash, the famous mathematician. I glance at Brass, and explain to him why Nash used to believe that he received messages from extraterrestrials… logically, I have to admit it, it makes sense. If you are good at something, say, mathematics, for example, and you _know _that you are good at it, you almost _have_ to believe messages that are sent to you in the same way that your gift is. The mind can be a tricky thing, and I understand.**

**Brass accepts my explanation, nods at me, and returns his attention to the inmates in the lounge. I, on the other hand, begin to contemplate the case. Within the next hour or so, Jim and I will start to interview the patients... this is not something that I am looking forward to doing, and something that I actually considered asking Sara to do. At the last moment, however, I changed my mind, and decided to have her focus her attention on evidence collection. Although she is a skilled interrogator, the thought of her in a room—alone—with these people, made my heart skip a beat, and… I refuse to unnecessarily risk her safety. So… guilty conscience aside, she will have nothing to do with the interviews. I… don't want her to get hurt, and… I don't want to have to… worry about her; not that collecting evidence in a mental hospital—a mental hospital where the patients have free rein—is completely risk free anyhow.**

**With a sigh, I glance up as Velerie Dino, the on-call doctor, walks toward us. "Did you pronounce…?" I simply ask her.**

"**Yeah," she replies. "The administration asked me to set up some rooms for your interviews, but, uh, personally, I don't see what you hope to accomplish. These patients are criminals with severe mental disorders. They're not going to give you a straight answer."**

**Brass smiles at her. "No one ever does."**

**I shrug, as she leads us back down the deserted hallway to the interview rooms.**

I can't help but feel oddly relieved that Grissom gave me the job of evidence collection. I certainly would not be looking forward to spending even just a few minutes alone in a room with any of the patients here. The atmosphere of this place has already sort of unnerved me...and I didn't think that being alone in the same room with rapists and murderers would help to ease my nerves.

After opening my kit, slipping on a pair of gloves and getting out my camera, I watch the coroners wheel away the lifeless and...very bloody body of one Robbie Garson. As soon as they disappear around the corner, I turn and face the task at hand, reminding myself to take pictures of every single detail, large or small.

I see a black sign with white writing near the door and position the eyepiece of my camera before snapping a few shots.

NAME: ROBBIE GARSON  
PSYCHIATRIST: DR. VALERIE DINO (MD)  
NURSE: JOANNE MCKAY (RN)  
NOC. NURSE: NANETTE FABER (RN)  
PSYCH. TECH: LEON MADERA  
MEDICATIONS: GEODON, OLANZAPINE, DEPOKOTE, LITIUM, LORAZEPAM

_Pretty good haul of medication,_ I think to myself, snapping a few shots of the sign. Walking through the doorway of Robbie's room, I look around to ensure that I don't disturb any evidence, i.e mostly blood on the floor.

I crouch down and click the button on the camera three times, each shots of the pool of blood, leaving my back to the door. Getting to my feet, I open one of the drawers and see several pairs of clean clothes- each the standard uniform for patients- folded neat and tidy. I take more photos, interrupted by the sudden sound of a crack of thunder erupting near the window.

I quickly compose myself and turn around to look at the other half of the room. I spot some blue substance on the wall just above Robbie's bed- it looks to be a sticky blue...something. Paper, maybe...?

I reach into my kit for something to scrape it off the wall and begin to try and collect it. It was then that I realized it was a torn piece of blue tape and I peel it off with my finger, placing it in a bindle.

So far, so good.

**So I sit down at the table, and prepare for my first interview. First up is Ronald Salter, in for murder and multiple rape; _not _the kind of man that I would want Sara to be around... or any of my CSIs, for that matter. Hiding my frown, I glance across the table at the man.**

**I honestly believe that my interview with Ronald is going well, despite the fact that he won't make eye contact with me, his words are a jumbled mess, and he can't seem to sit still. It's going well, that is, until… a short while later, when he starts talking about an imaginary cricket. I inwardly sigh, but I play along with him, thinking that perhaps he is still talking about himself. It's possible, right...? I think that it is, so… I continue to question him. It doesn't take long for me to realize, however, that he is delusional. He truly believes that there is a cricket trying to burrow its way into his head. With a nod, I tell the guard that he can take Ronald away.**

_Biting my lip, I look over my first interviewee's file: Earl Simmonds, a depressed rapist. Sighing, I look toward the barred window, and the rain beyond it. I don't understand how a person can hurt another person. I don't understand how someone can look into someone else's eyes, and still… do something to hurt him or her. Why? Where's the sense in that? It just doesn't make any sense… but then again, the world doesn't always make sense, either._

_As Simmonds shuffles in, I grab my pen and paper, and steel myself for a… unique interview. Frowning at the other man, I sigh._

"_I don't sleep," he tells me._

_Interesting. I didn't even ask him a question yet! But glancing over at him, I raise an eyebrow. "Never?" _

_Simmonds shakes his head no._

" _So… what do you do at night?" I then ask, thinking that this line of questioning is ridiculous._

"_Day, night, it don't make no difference. I think…" he immediately replies._

"_About what?"_

"_Bitches."_

_Well isn't that special? I want to tell him. But like the good boy that I am, I refrain from doing so. Thank God that Sara isn't in this room, though…._

After taking all of the necessary photos of what I have already discovered, I decide it's time to turn on the AV. I turn the machine on and start shining the blue light over the sheets on Robbie's bed, fashioning orange goggles.

My search came up empty until I stumbled upon a discoloration on the sheets. Semen, I deduct. Taking the sheet off so it can later be bagged as evidence, I run the light over the rest of the bed, shining it on the pillow. After finding nothing else of interest, I quickly decide what to do next.

I used to hide journals and diaries under my mattress when I was younger, though my parents were always too drunk to know that their daughter kept a diary anyway. Despite any of that, I kept the small book containing my thoughts and feelings under the mattress at all times when I was not writing in it. It gave me a small reassurance that it was safe and secret, hidden from the rest of the world.

I lift the small rather thin mattress up off of the metal springs and I am rewarded with a piece of paper- looking to be from a magazine- hidden under the mattress. Kneeling down and leaning the mattress against the wall, I take my goggles off and position them above my head as I pick the paper up for better analysis.

Now that I have a better view of the paper, I confirm that it is indeed a page from a magazine. It looked to be from a clothing catalogue, and on the page were several young boys looking to be around the age of 10 fashioning the clothes they were trying to sell.

I crinkled my face as I raised an eyebrow in thought. Why would Robbie Garson have a torn page from a magazine...? Or, more importantly, why was he keeping it secret?

**Adam Trent. There is just something about this guy that makes me a little bit uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the way that he smirked at me at the beginning of the interview, his gaze unwavering. Or perhaps it is the fact that he is so poised, and so confident, and almost cocky, to the point of coming across as… well… as I don't know what. Whatever it is, I don't really trust him… and once again, I am thankful for the fact that Sara does not need to speak with him. Ever. This man is dangerous… perhaps more so than the rest, just because of his attitude and his demeanor.**

**Silently staring across the window at Adam for a moment, I frown, as he starts to speak to me. "What are you going to do? Are you going to convict me of murder and put me in a bad place?" he asks me, once again smirking, and once again biting his nails.**

**I bite the inside of my mouth, ensuring that I keep the sarcasm out of my voice when I am ready to reply to him. I absolutely can't stand this man, but… he is still a suspect, and… he still might have some valuable information for us. "Is it you…?" I simply ask him, once again calmly staring across the table at him.**

"**Check the files, sir. I'm a rapist, not a murderer."**

**_That's a good point_, I sigh to myself, as I nod for the guard to lead Adam Trent out of the interview room.**

_I once again fight the urge to say something sarcastic, as I sit across the table from an elderly man. An unresponsive, elderly man, who does nothing more than stare at me. I try to get him to talk to me, but nothing. Nada. Zilch. Why am I not surprised…? I frown to myself, sighing. What would have ever possessed me to think that this would be an easy case?_

**Charles Pellew is a patient with OCD and a panic disorder. _I can handle him,_ I think to myself. I can relate to someone with obsessive-compulsive disorder… I think, that is.**

**That being said, I should have realized that his current address—that of the Desert State Mental Hospital—indicated that Pellew is not entirely…with it. Because the moment that I start to question him about Robert Garson, I get answers that I don't exactly understand. He nods at me, as if he believes that he is giving me important information, but… I have no idea what he is actually trying to tell me.**

"**Female pig relation, hanged, it sped even, well, too," he informs me.**

"**What…?" I ask, once again trying to keep my voice calm, steady, and soothing. **

"**No. I ground it ... blindly. Wet and dirty. Cut the blood oven. It spoke justly, repeatedly, calmly. Some thin rod dared your wash. They foretold this into some ready child, which fell crossly. They hag-rode me... again," he adds.**

**Once again, I have absolutely no idea what Pellew is talking about. And this time, I have a feeling that this is really a good thing.**

_One more interview to go, I happily tell myself. Just one more interview to go, and then I can leave this place… or at least this room, I amend. So who's up? My good friend Jake. Jake the snake. The man who earlier this evening, stuck his tongue out at Sara. I am not looking forward to this interview, and… I actually just want to get it over with._

_Staring across the table at Jake, who is tied to his chair, I frown. He is so willing to talk, and I have to admit, I am fine just listening to what he has to say._

"_Why are you looking at me? You got Leon, he's a spic. Earl, the brother. And the crazy frickin' Jew boy with the bug in his head."_

_Fantastic, I want to tell him. And please, tell me what you REALLY think about everyone else around here? I guess it's obvious why you have anti-social behavior, I think to myself. Staring across the table at him, I merely raise an eyebrow._

" _You know, most of the doctors here are Jewish. They're the ones with the access."_

_And there you have it, folks, I inwardly think to myself. The world according to Jake. _

I decided to head down the hallway and ask one of the on-call doctors that night a question to narrow down the possible donors of the semen in Robbie's bed. I approach one of the doors along a wide and seemingly never-ending corridor and look at the sign plastered by the doorway to make sure I was at the right place. The sign read 'DR. VALERIE DINO (MD)' in white writing, so I knocked quietly.

"Yeah?" came a voice from inside.

I opened the door wide and held my kit in front of me, leaning it against one of the chairs in the room. "Dr. Dino," I said with a polite smile, as if asking for reassurance that this woman in front of me was in fact Dr. Valerie Dino.

"Hi," she said, looking up from a stack of papers on her over-filled desk. I had obviously interrupted her, so I didn't want to keep her long. But I still found myself commenting about the papers.

"Paperwork," I said, tilting my head a bit to motion toward the papers.

"This is a state-run facility," she reminds me, shooting me a small smile. "What can I help you with?" she then asks.

Lifting my kit up off the chair, I moved a little closer to her to make sure she heard me. "Question about the victim," I start. "I have that in some cases of deviant sexual predisposition, you slow the sex drive..."

Dr. Dino just nodded, cutting me off in mid-sentence. "If you're talking about chemical castration, the answer is, yes, Robbie was."

I started putting the pieces together. "So he didn't masturbate..."

"Masturbate, yes. Ejaculate, no," Dr. Dino clarifies.

"So...the semen I found in his bed...is someone else's?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

She nods again, fixing her glasses that were positioned on the bridge of her nose. "Likely."

I shoot her small apologetic and appreciative smile and nod before leaving the room. "Thanks."

"Sure," she says, and like the worker bee, immediately returned to her work.

After my stop at Dr. Dino's office, I headed down the corridor to meet up with Brass and Grissom and share what I have learned. I tried to ignore the strong urge to look over my shoulder as I saw them exit one of the rooms near the nurse's station. "Hey, guys, I found semen in the victim's room and it's probably not his- he was chemically castrated," I explain, slowing to a stop.

"**So you're thinking the donor could be the killer?" Brass asks Sara and I.**

**I nod, flashing him a small smile. "Sex is the foreplay. Violence is the climax."**

"**Well..." Brass trails of. "Happy swabbing."**

**Gee, thanks, Jim, I want to tell him. Because I definitely can't think of anything else that I'd rather be doing, than sticking my hand near the mouths of extremely violent criminals.**

**Walking into the room, I immediately slip on a pair of gloves, studying my surroundings. This room actually appears to be more brightly lit to me than the rest of the hospital, although… the decorations still leave something to be desired. Glancing at the inmates, I sigh, as I watch them receive their medication. _Well… at least they'll be more sedated_, I think to myself.**

**Turning to look at Sara, I take one more deep breath. "Well, you take that side," I nod to one side of the room. "I'll take Jimminy Cricket…" I add, proud of myself for resisting the urge to tell her to be careful. But yet again, I find myself worrying about Sara and her safety. This place… this particular task… poses danger for both of us… but more so for her, for the simple fact that she is female.**

**Making sure that my gloves are securely on my hands, I move toward Ronald Salter. Kneeling down beside him, I sigh. "Say ah…" I tell him.**

"**Ah…" he replies, as I stick the swab into his mouth, and get the sample.**

**I stop for a moment, in order to glance over at Sara. _If anyone touches her… _I think to myself. _I'm going to… what? What am I going to do…? _With a frown, I walk over to Charles Pellew, the next person on my mouth-swabbing list. "Say ah!" I tell him, before quickly taking the sample.**

"**Aah-ah-ah!" he replies.**

**What is that all about…? I frown, staring down at him. With a shrug, I store the swab, before noticing Leon walking toward me with the medicine tray. "You, too, Leon…" I tell him. Leon does not look very happy, and a part of me wonders why. Getting a DNA sample is a very easy thing to do, and… it surprises me that he seems so reluctant to give me one.**

"**I work here," he protests.**

"**Exactly…" I say, as I reach into his mouth, and grab the sample. Fascinating…**

"Excellent," I tell Grissom with a sigh after I'm informed that I'll be taking the left side of the room. I put on some gloves and grab the right amount of boxes and swabs and get to work. I walk around the couches and chairs in the rather bland room- the amount of white almost blinding me- and I kneel down in front of the patients to get a sample.

"Open for me, please," I tell the first patient, an african-american man that looked sleep-deprived. He stared up at me and slowly- almost reluctantly- opened his mouth. I spotted what looked to be a scar near his left eye, but didn't look him directly in the eye and quickly took the swab. "Thank you..." I told him, writing his name on one of the boxes as I store the first sample.

I moved on to the next patient- a fairly decent-looking man with curly brown hair. You'd think he were normal until you saw the crazed look in his eyes. I didn't even have to say anything, and he opened up his mouth in order for me to get a sample. I wasn't sure, but...I think I saw a grin on his face. A grin that made a feel...uncomfortable. I quickly took the sample and stored it.

I looked up to see Grissom taking Leon's sample and I can't help but grin. Grissom- he's never changed.

Finally I crouch over beside the last patient on my side of the room. He was an elderly man with white-grayish hair, and he almost looked like he was asleep as he sat slumped-over in the leather chair of the room. I'm not sure if he even knew I was there, swab in-hand.

"Open your mouth, please," I tell him. I get no response; it's almost as if this man's lost in his own little world. Thinking he may not have heard me before, I say a bit louder, "Would you open your mouth, Sir?"

And suddenly the man moves. He lunges at me, his mouth open wide. I propel myself backwards as he's restrained by an officer in the room. "Settle down," I hear the officer tell him.

The older man sitting in the chair starts muttering to himself in some foreign language and for a moment I just stare at him, my mind still not fully registering what just happened. "Grissom..." I start, looking over across the room at Grissom. This got his attention and he looked up from the patient he was currently taking a swab from.

I looked down at the man and motioned with the swab. "You take this one," I told him, quickly turning around and taking a deep breath. My hands are shaking; they won't stop shaking. Well, if I wasn't awake a second ago...I sure as hell am now.

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TO BE CONTINUED 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** **Thanks to all who's been reading and reviewing thus far! Here's the next chapter; same thing as the others! Zan wrote Grissom in bold, QTR wrote Sara in the normal font!**

**---------------**

**This case is getting stranger and stranger, I'm afraid. I don't like it, as a matter-of-fact, and yet again, I am concerned with the fact that Sara is still involved with it. Take the whole DNA-collecting fiasco, for example. While we were getting the DNA samples from the inmates, I couldn't help but continuously look over at Sara. I know that there were guards in the room, but… for whatever reason, I felt compelled to keep an eye on her. And then my worst fear came to light, when one of the individuals tried to bite her. I was… upset, to say the very least. **

**And then we left. Thank goodness we left that God-forsaken place, dashing out into the dark and stormy night. The thunder and lightning crashed around us, but we made it back to the lab. Back to safety. Back to security.**

**So here I stand with Al, discussing Robbie's stomach contents. Al cracks a joke, as usual, and I am quick with the comeback. I'm actually proud of myself for remembering the movie _Jaws_, because, well… I don't get out all that much. But Robbie's stomach contents are… fascinating, and I can't help but wonder what this man must have gone through. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder can be a tricky thing to live with, which… makes me think about Sara. Sara has OCD, I'm fairly certain. She just seems to focus on… random things. Frowning, I secretly wonder what the inside of her mind really looks like. How bad are her obsessions and compulsions? Do they help her do her job better? Or make her job harder?**

**Sighing, I glance back down at the autopsy table. Listening to Al, I nod, as I absorb the information that he is telling me. "So… C.O.D. was blunt force trauma?" I ask, thinking things through.**

"**No. Asphyxiation," he replies.**

**But that doesn't make any sense to me. He died from not being able to breathe…? "During the struggle?" I want to know.**

"**No," Al tells me, going on to explain that Robbie's head trauma was actually caused post-mortem.**

**Okay… now I'm even more confused. "So evidently, dead wasn't dead enough…" I muse, staring down at the table. And not only am I more confused, I am more reluctant to allow Sara to return to the state hospital. Robbie was not only murdered, but he was beaten afterward, as well. For whatever reason, this fact makes me feel even more uncomfortable… in my mind, the fact that someone wanted to hurt him that badly is worse to me, than had he or she just killed Robbie flat out, and left. I am so reluctant to allow Sara to return to the hospital, because… well… this very angry killer is still living there. Free… roaming the halls.**

**Al then begins to speak again, pulling me out of my reverie. "I also found ligature marks on the wrists and ankles…" he informs me, pointing. "They showed up during the Y-peri-mortem. So, what, tortured? Tied up?"**

"**Restrained…" I simply tell him. "Nobody mentioned restraints…" So not only are the criminals dangerous, but the staff members are, too. If Sara goes back there, and someone hurts her in someway, so help me God…**

So now we're back at the lab- away from that...80-year-old Mike Tyson. I must say that my mood has lightened considerably since we have returned to the lab. I'm familiar with the lab...actually it's like more of a second home to me.

I must say that I am not looking forward to returning to that...place. It just...brings back...memories. Memories I don't necessarily want to remember. Being there just makes me feel...vulnerable, and I don't like feeling vulnerable. It means that I feel weak. And someone in my line of work can never feel weak, emotionally or physically.

"Would you ever bleach your hair?"

Ah...god. Okay, where was I? Trace lab...Hodges. That's right. Sample under the scope, looks like...hair. Yeah, it's hair, I can see the skin tag.

His words finally registering in my brain, I blink.

"I wouldn't; so Greg Sanders," Hodges tells me.

I blink again and look over at him. He just returns my gaze; he obviously didn't see how...awkward that sounded coming from him. I just shake my head and return to the scope.

"Most of the hair was the vic's, but I did find that bleached sample as well," he says. I hear him shuffle files around. "In my continuing quest to further my standing I took it upon myself to get you the tox report," he says, handing me the file.

Wow. That was...not like Hodges. "Thanks," I tell him, taking the file.

"You're welcome," he shrugs, watching as I scan the file with my eyes. "Blood came back with pretty hefty levels of olanzapine."

"That's a potent anti-psychotic," I nod.

"Good for drooling."

I shoot him a look before going back to the file.

"And then there's the, uh, not so-potent smattering of ibuprofen."

I blink. That's a short list of medications for someone in a mental institution. "That's it?" I ask.

"That's it," he confirms.

That does not sound right, and I know it. There's got to be a catch...there's always a catch, and when something doesn't sound right to a CSI...it's because it's usually not.

Yet, I look over the file and true to Hodges' words, only the two medications were in Robbie's system.

SAMPLE TEST RESULTS

------ ---- -------

BLOOD NARCOTICS OLANZAPINE

BLOOD NARCOTICS IBUPROFEN

BLOOD ALCOHOL NONE

BLOOD CHEMICAL NONE

"If I were institutionalized," I hear Hodges start. "I think I would hope for something better. "Clonazpam, maybe."

I lift my head up and stare at him for a minute.

I can see a small grin creeping around the corners of his mouth. "What, you, uh, think I'm crazy?" he asks.

I just shake my head with a smirk. "Crazy is as crazy does." After a brief moment of silence it's back to business. "His chart indicated at least four other anti-psychotics, why wasn't he getting those meds?" I ask, even though I know he does not have the answer.

He shrugs. "Do I look clairvoyant?"

I just grin as he walks around me. That was a nice way to lighten up the mood, even though...our remarks just made me think of the place where we're inevitably going to end up in again.

**With my hands in my pockets, I shuffle down the hallway with Brass at my side, discussing the case. _What do we have…? _I want to ask him. But I let him speak first.**

"**News flash from the loony bin," he told me. "Two reported deaths in the last three years from 'complications due to restraint procedures.'"**

**Well… that's pretty…interesting, I muse to myself. 'Complications due to restraint procedures?' What kind of a state-run facility _is _this place? I frown to myself. Shouldn't the staff be trained in such techniques…? And if two incidents have actually been reported, well… "And how many have gone unreported?" I finally ask him.**

"**The hospital just got off probation. One more death by restraint brings **

**the feds in."**

**I stare straight ahead of me, as I try to collect my thoughts. First of all, I am totally appalled by the fact that the feds will not check out a facility until three people have already died by a procedure that should be controllable. I understand that the doctors and nurses deal with patients and inmates—on a daily basis—who have severe problems, but… I don't understand why two deaths, let alone three deaths, are allowed to occur before something is done about it. And second of all, well… I am no longer sure how I feel about this hospital. Yet again, I am left wondering whether or not Sara should be allowed to return. Something is obviously going on at the place, and… well… the longer that we stay there, the worse her expressions become. I don't like it, and… I want to keep her safe.**

**And I have to stop and wonder for a moment. Okay, I have to keep moving and wonder. But… why _do _I suddenly have all of these feelings for Sara…? And actually… what kind of feelings _are _they…? Are they your typical 'I'm the supervisor, so I have to look out for you' feelings…? Or are they… 'I… like you…' feelings? Taking a deep breath, I try to clear my head of all thoughts of Sara.**

**Probation. Jim said something about probation. "Good incentive to keep it quiet," I simply tell Brass.**

"**Or make it look like someone else did it…" he replies.**

**I bite my lip, glancing at him for a moment. "Yeah. Somebody who's crazy." But an inmate? Or a staff member? That's the real question. Regardless of who did it, the evidence never lies… and between Sara and I, we will catch the killer or killers. Of that, everyone can be sure.**

It's _still_ raining. So help me god, it's still raining. The rain actually hasn't slowed since it started...which...is strange, regardless to say. I look back over at the hospital administrator in the surveillance room of the hospital as I watch Robbie struggle against the nurses and techs in seclusion.

And of course...we're back at this place. Again.

"This is Robbie in the seclusion room the day he died," the administrator explains.

Brass and I continue to view this footage for the first time. I think even Jim's feeling a bit uncomfortable watching this. Watching...Robbie... _Her..._ ...struggle, is just... I don't know how to describe it. It's like...part of you wants to help him, but the other part is hoping to God he's not let free.

I watch as the administrator leans forward and fast-forwards the tape a little. On the screen, I can now plainly see that Robbie has calmed down considerably and is no longer thrashing against the nurses and doctors as they come to check in on him.

"And as you can see, the on-call doctor and Nurse McKay checked in on him..." the administrator says, motioning to the screen as if we can't see. He leans forward and fast-forwards it ahead more. "Two hours later, he was escorted out, so I resent the accusation."

How could we not have made accusations? Three people died from these procedures, and from what I've seen, they're not exactly gentle.

"We've made a lot of changes," the man continues. "We've made a lot of changes. Police, staff, surveillance have all been overhauled. Look, Robbie left the seclusion room alive."

Alright, so we were wrong about that one. Before he has a chance to say something else to prove us wrong even further, I beat him to it. "Okay, fine," I shrug. "Who administers medication?"

He shrugs. "Uh, the nurses, psych-techs. Why is this important?"

"Well, according to his tox results," I say, "Robbie's system was short four anti-psychotics."

The hospital administrator quickly has a response. "Maybe he was cheeking them."

Brass and I both ponder this for a minute, and Brass then speaks. "Why would he do that?"

The man shrugs. "They think they don't need 'em, they...sell 'em, trade 'em...store 'em up, get high later."

"We're going to need to talk to his pharmacist," Brass says without hesitation.

I love Brass.

We then descended down the hallway to find Leon. Judging by the long line of inmates in the hallway, I suspected that was where we would find him. And sure enough, there was Leon, right at the top of the line giving each patient medication as if it were candy.

After Earl Simmonds walks off, Leon looks up to see the next patient. "Oh, come on Chuck, I got something for you," he tells him.

Before Pellew can get his medication, an officer pushes him back allowing Brass and I the place in line. Leaning over the cups, I squint to better see what's in the containers.

Leon turns around and looks quite surprised to see us standing there and not one of the patients. "Love your hair, Leon," I tell him, noticing that his hair is bleached. That would match the sample Hodges had.

"Thanks," he says, obviously still trying to figure out why we're there bugging him.

"What'd you got here?" I then say, looking down at the pills. "Ibuprofen...laxative, aspirin," I observe. "What are you...treating exactly? Schizophrenia or constipation?"

He looks baffled.

"Where are the real drugs, Leon?" Brass asks.

We're back at PD and that's weight off my shoulders, even though interrogating suspects is not necessarily my cup of tea. Leon is...a very interesting fellow. He doesn't look a day over 25, he may even be younger. So...why would a kid like him be in this line of work?

Sitting at the table across from Leon, I listen to Brass name-off the list of medications Leon took.

"Man...xanax, lanzopine, zoloft, suprazadone, clozapine, lorazapan, lithium, valium, wellbutrin, haldol, respiredone."

I can't hide the small smile on my face as I slide a photograph in front of him. "You took _everything_ with street value." Now things are starting to make sense as to why Leon chose to work in that place.

Leon laughs a little; he actually looked a bit amused. "Look, dude," he says to Brass. "I get 22-K a year. That's nothin'. Diddly-squat. I should get hazard pay," he says very matter-of-fact. "These people, I get...spit on, puked on, peed on, bitten. I get my hair yanked out, I get my ass pinched, I get death threats." That's quite a list. "All for 22-K," he finishes. "So I supplement my income, it don't hurt nobody," he says, shaking his head.

"Are...you a doctor?" I ask him. He may not make enough money, but...it still doesn't make what's he's doing right.

He just rolls his eyes and leans forward, licking his lips as he gets ready for his explanation. "Look, these people over-medicate patients all the time," he tells me. "It controls the population!" he adds, looking from Brass to myself. "And I don't endanger the patients, okay? I'm all about the patients."

Are you? I want to ask.

"Maybe Robbie caught you skimping on his meds, threatened to blow the whistle. There goes that supplemental income," Brass suggests.

That would make sense, I think to myself. Though...why would Leon put himself in an even worse position than he was already in? He was already stealing from the hospital, did he want to add murder, too?

"No way, man, that's a story," Leon says. "That's not why he went to seclusion."

Now I'm curious. "Why did he go to seclusion?" I ask.

"He freaked out in group!" he said with a shrug, eyes widening. "I wasn't even there! Ask somebody who was."

Believe me, we will.

"Am I gonna lose my job?" Leon then asks, looking from me to Brass. "'Cause these people...need me."

That was quite an interesting interrogation. What a way to take my mind off...things.

From PD I headed back to the lab and sat down across from Grissom in his office. I must say that...this is probably the most comfortable I've felt since we first started this case. I don't know what it is...perhaps it's the fact that...I'm with...Grissom. Grissom is the most familiar person here to me in Vegas. I've known Grissom longer than anyone else, and...well...I trust him.

"According to the video logs," I tell Grissom, looking down at the sheet of paper in front of me. "Robbie was brought into seclusion at 5:03 pm, and then taken out of the room at 7:06 pm. Nurse McKay noted that he was awake and in bed at the 9:30 bed checks."

**I try not to smile at Sara sitting across from me, but… I have to admit, I am glad that she is here, in my office. I feel better knowing that she is… safe, and… I feel comfortable knowing that it is me looking out for her. I almost can't help but smile… almost. But I have to remain professional. I am the consummate professional. And so is Sara.**

**So glancing down at the file in front of me, I finally answer her. "Body was found at 12:10. So sometime between 9:30 and midnight, he…was suffocated," I point out. Why… Why is she leaning back in her chair like that…? I want to ask. But again, I'm a professional.**

"**Probably closer to 9:30. The blood would've needed time to coagulate before his head was smashed in…" she informs me.**

"**And not necessarily by the same person…" I add. It's interesting, you know that? I ask myself. Sara and I… if you watch us long enough…we tend to complete one another's thoughts. That means that we… know each other well enough to compliment one another. That's a good thing, right…? I again question myself, frowning.**

**Looking up, I suddenly bite my lip, as Greg walks in, carrying a pillow.**

"**Hey, how about some pillow talk?" he grins at us.**

**I try not to choke, as I think about pillows… and beds… and… ever the consummate professional, I frown to myself, trying to refocus. Glancing up at Greg, I nod at him to continue.**

"**Robbie's pillow had saliva on it. Lots of it; all his…"**

**I shrug, as I point out the obvious. "Could be from drooling. Or it could be from dying…" And that's the truth. The evidence is important, but… it doesn't tell us everything that it needs to tell us. Yet, that is.**

"**Well, look at this -- I found slits at both ends…" Greg continues, as he grips the pillow, and shows us the finger marks. "Left hand... and right hand…" Greg then moves toward Sara, as if pretending to smother her.**

**I can't believe that he just did that, and I have to admit, I am _extremely_ angry about it. I frown, and my jaw slightly twitches. How _dare _he do that to her! I frown again, and I consider saying something to him right then and there, but what am I going to say? He didn't actually _do _anything to her… he just pretended. And yet… this better not be a sign of things to come. Sara can't get hurt. I won't let her. **

I slowly tilt my head back away from Greg as he 'smothers' me with the pillow. So much for feeling safe in the lab, even though I know Greg poses no threat to me. I'm just...paranoid, scared...

I manage a smile at Greg and turn to look at Grissom. "Looks like we have a murder weapon."

**---------------**

TO BE CONTINUED 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks again to all who've been reading! We have seriously been squeeing our heads off for the next few chapters; we're trying not to lose our minds and end up like Adam Trent! Anyways, tell us what you think of this new chapter! We've been re-watching Committed like crazy, taking notes of every facial expression or look a character gives another. We hope this is accurate!

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I must say, though it is still raining outside, I'm more comfortable being outside the building than being inside- even though I'm still on the premises. I can run out here, I can…breathe. It's not as constricting, and I needed that breath of fresh air.

"Thanks, officer," I tell Lt. Reed Owens of the Desert State Hospital police. He was kind enough to hold an umbrella for me as I headed outside to talk with Nurse McKay about the incident in group therapy regarding Robbie.

Owens nods and walks off. I look around and spot Nurse McKay sitting at one of the benches with a cigarette between her lips, both fingers holding onto it as she takes a drag. I can't help but feel that there's something a bit suspicious about this woman. She seems…a bit too relaxed, considering what just happened. A patient died, and…she didn't seem shaken up about it at all.

"Nurse McKay, hi," I greet her with a small smile, walking over to her and leaning against one of the poles supporting the roof above us. She just nods as an acknowledgement. "Dr. Dino said that you supervised group therapy yesterday."

She blinks, as if taken off guard, but then nods. "Uh, yeah."

"I heard there was an incident involving Robbie…" I trail off.

She nods. "He had a personal item," she informs me, taking another drag of her cigarette.

"A…personal item?" I ask.

I watch as she smashes the cigarette in the ash tray next to her. "You can't bring anything in group except a beverage, it distracts the other patients."

I just nod slowly. "What did he bring?"

"A photograph," she tells me.

It sure seems like I'm having to prod for answers here. "Of what?" I prompt.

"A little boy," she says.

I just nod. "What did you do?"

She blinks. "I followed the protocol," she says. I'm left to ponder what exactly happened in my mind, the images flashing before my eyes, vibrant and clear. "Boom, boom, and boom- medication, seclusion, restraint."

"Tough love," I offer my opinion.

"Call it what you want, these aren't my children," she tells me, getting to her feet as if to make a run for it.

"Why…didn't you mention this information yesterday?" I quickly ask before she has a chance to leave.

"Because crap like that happens everyday here," she tells me, her eyes narrowing.

Yeah, I want to tell her, but this crap happened to lead up to the death of one of the patients.

She shrugs. "I should get back to the unit."

I just nod. "Sure." She walks off rather quickly and I hear my phone ring before I'm able to ponder what just happened in my mind any further. I reach into my pocket and answer it automatically. "Sidle."

_"We got the DNA results back on the semen in Robbie's bed."_

It's Grissom.

_"Patient Adam Trent—the nail biter,"_ he informs me.

I just nod, actually a bit surprised. Adam…didn't seem like the type of person who would be having sex with one of the other patients. He seemed to keep to himself. "Okay."

**Once again, I have to admit my unease at having Sara work this entire case… more so, for the simple fact that I am not with her at all times, keeping an eye on her. For example, just a little while ago, I sent Sara back to the state hospital—alone—to collect more information. I, on the other hand, stayed at the lab, analyzing what we already had. Why…? I mean… why didn't I ask Sara to stay here, while taking on the more dangerous task myself? Especially, I can't help but think to myself, if I am going to sit here and dwell on everything that Sara might or might not be encountering at the hospital. It doesn't make sense… and I am reminded of the fact that I can be very… unenlightened, sometimes.**

**A short time later, however, my fears are put to rest, as Sara and I reunite in order to examine Adam Trent's room. Adam's room is… well… it's different, I suppose. The furniture is the same as the furniture in the other rooms, but… his walls are decorated with… art. I think it's art, anyhow. Snapping a couple of photographs of a cat-like picture, I sigh, as I try to study it. Its back is to me, and it appears to be looking over its shoulder. In a sick sort of way, this part of the picture kind of reminds me of Marilyn Monroe… Okay, let me rephrase that: this picture reminds me of those women from the 1950s and 1960s, who face forward, glancing over their shoulders in seductive poses. The upper part of Adam's picture is innocuous enough, much like the models depicted in the "come hither" photos of past decades.**

**But then the tone of the picture changes, as the human eye is drawn to spikes. Spikes are not innocuous. Spikes can kill. "This stuff is dark…" I merely comment, noticing how intently Sara is studying the images plastering the walls. What is running through her mind? I think to myself.**

This art is very…different from what I've seen. Actually, 'different' is a major understatement. I can only imagine what kind of thoughts were running through Adam's mind as he drew these pictures. The hospital is not exactly the warmest most cheery place in the world, though, so in a way I can see how he probably came up with this stuff in his mind.

But why would Adam be making all sorts of innocuous objects into killing machines? I don't understand… in Adam's file, he has records of past suicide attempts, but he never murdered anyone from what I saw. These pictures- to me- depict anger. Where was this anger coming from? Why would Adam be filled with all this rage? Was it rage pent up from being locked up in this place, rage against the hospital, perhaps?

I note that one of the pictures is of Medusa's head. Huh. At one point in my life I think I was actually pretty sure my mother was Medusa. She was known as the _nasty mother_. Well...my mother was...I wouldn't say nasty, I don't think that word properly portrays her actions. According to what I have read, Medusa purified. Was...that what my mother was doing when she killed my father? _Purifying_ him?

Medusa was sort of the protector of women, she certainly had the strength to scare men off. She was raped by Poseidon but still had the strength and courage to stand against those who thought to inflict harm upon the female race. My mother had put up with my father's behavior for quite some time...and I guess she had finally had enough of it that night. But...I don't justify what she did. And she didn't do it to protect _us_…she probably did it to protect _her_.

"This stuff is dark," I hear Grissom say as he takes more pictures of the room. I'm sure there are thousands of things going on in his mind at the moment, but those simple four words were a fair observation of the images in front of us.

_You're supposed to be thinking of the case right now, not about something that happened to you over twenty years ago._ "Yeah…" I muse, looking from picture to picture. A tree with razors on it, a cat with thorns on its tail, an oboe that looks to have been turned into some sort of weapon… "'Course, I wouldn't expect Winnie the Pooh…" I tell him, still looking at each picture. Somehow I wasn't expecting to see a cheerful pink Piglet all smiles plastered over the walls. Call me crazy.

"**Yeah… 'Course, I wouldn't expect Winnie the Pooh…" I hear Sara comment.**

**Good point. Although… well, I wasn't really expecting to find…this, either. Slowly walking over to Sara, I stand just in front of her, as if trying to protect her from pictures that might just come alive and attempt to kill her… or at the very least, as if trying to protect her from the man whose mind created these sick images.**

"**Adam's subconscious was working overtime…" I merely reply to her.**

**Because what must someone be thinking, in order to design a tree with razors, or an oboe that can kill…? What must someone be mentally and physically going through, in order to draw a picture of Medusa… or in other words, a female killer… an individual who is noted by historians as being, for lack of a better word, an evil mother? None of these pictures are happy-go-lucky, although… can I really blame Adam for drawing such dismal images…?**

**His life is basically a prison, on two completely separate levels. First of all, Adam is locked inside of this particular state-run facility, forced to eat, sleep, and breathe the "craziness." He wakes up, he takes medication, he goes to group, he takes medication, and he goes to sleep… only to wake up the very next day, to repeat the process all over again. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep… only to repeat the process again, the very next day; and then the very next day; and then the very next day. But as if that is not bad enough, Adam is also locked inside the confines of his own body. I cannot imagine what hell his brain must put him through on a daily basis, nor can I imagine how he manages to cope with the stress of being imprisoned inside of his own body. In a sense, I almost feel sorry for Adam. Almost. **

**But then my gaze wanders back to Medusa, and I start to think about Sara again. Aside from the whole killer and having snakes for hair, Sara and Medusa actually have a lot of things in common. Medusa's mask is always depicted in an interesting way… a strong, unwavering gaze, eyes that reflect extreme intelligence and wisdom… eyes that can tell exactly what someone is thinking, regardless of what that particular person says; the mask kind of describes Sara, in a sense. Sara has strong convictions, and when she gazes at you, it is almost as if she can see right down into your soul; it's almost as if she knows everything that there is to know about someone, just by looking at him or her. And truth be told, I am not entirely sure how I feel about this. _What… what does she think about me…?_ I can't help but wonder.**

I just nod, trying to think of something to change the topic and lighten the mood. I can sense- no; feel- the tension in this room and it's making us both uncomfortable.

"I bet you aced your Rorschachs," I tell Grissom, looking over at him with a smile. Actually, knowing Grissom, he probably aced everything- including his Rorschachs- with middle school, high school, and college credits to spare.

Grissom looks up from the camera and the picture he's currently taking and returns my gaze. I notice a small grin as he turns and takes more pictures.

"In fifth grade," I start, clearing my throat. I enjoyed the moment between us, it was... no, not sensual, just... comforting in a sense. Why am I talking about something that happened in fifth grade…? Is…it because it just crossed my mind, or…I want to see him smile again? "I drew a picture of a harpooned whale," I told him. "Everyone thought I was gonzo'd," I add, turning to look at him for his reaction. He shoots me a strange look, obviously surprised at my use of the slang term. "But I had just read Moby Dick," I shrug, looking back at the wall of pictures. "Sometimes a…dying whale is just a dying whale," I finish, looking over at him one last time with a grin. He smiles at me and I quickly turn away to try and hide my satisfaction from the reaction that I got from him.

Looking at another picture, I lean forward to take it off the wall for better observation- from here I can't really see what it is or what it looks like, though… it sort of looks like a chimera to me. I try to grab the picture and it falls off the wall behind a small dresser. I was surprised that I actually didn't feel embarrassed that this happened- perhaps it was because I was too focused at the moment, or because we were going to have to move this dresser eventually anyways.

With Grissom's help I move the dresser away from the wall and pick the picture up, looking at it more closely. After taking a peek at the picture, I set it down on the dresser and look down at the air vent. Grabbing my mag-lite, I click it on and open the air vent, and I'm rewarded when I notice that there are what looks to be some envelopes lying inside.

Reaching in, I grab some of them and set them down on the dresser. Kneeling back down to look further inside for anything else of interest, I find a hairbrush- covered in hair- as well and set it down on the dresser for better analysis. The hair looks fresh enough for a DNA profile, and that's good, I know. As soon as we run that to Greg we'll know if Adam had another sexual relationship with someone in this facility.

**I get back to work, resisting the urge to look at Sara. I need to focus on Adam's room. I need to collect the data. I need to concentrate on what I am doing. Really, I just have to get Sara out of my mind… because she is close to me, and I am once again consumed with the idea of keeping her safe.**

**And then Sara starts to talk… to lesson the tension in the room. Why… is she talking? Doesn't she know that I am trying to ignore her presence…?**

"**I bet you aced your Rorschachs," she tells me.**

**I flash her a strange look, trying not to smile. If I smile, I will only encourage her, and… God, she's smiling at me. I really want to smile back… I really, really do… but I have to be the consummate professional. I can't smile. I resist… this time.**

**But then she keeps talking to me, once again trying to lighten the mood. "When I was in fifth grade, I drew a picture of a harpooned whale. Everyone thought I was gonzo'd. But I had just read Moby Dick," she shrugs. "Sometimes a dying whale is just a dying whale…"**

**First of all, 'gonzo'd'? What the heck does that even mean? And I can't help it! I pull the camera away from my eye, and glance over at Sara. I smile at her for a brief moment, and I feel… what? What do I feel…? Desire? No, not really… the look was by no means sexual, nor was it even sensual. I feel warm… I feel… comfortable… I feel… at ease.**

**Taking a deep breath, I return the camera to my eyes, trying to get back to work. But before getting too far with my picture-taking, however, I watch as Sara reaches for one of the pictures as if to study it more closely, accidentally knocking it off of the wall, and behind a dresser. It could have happened to anyone, I want to tell her. But instead of saying anything, I simply move to help her with the dresser, and frown, as she uncovers something hidden behind it, and within a vent.**

**Glancing down at Sara, my mouth slightly hangs open, as she hands me a small stack of letters. _Interesting_, I think to myself. _Very, very interesting_. The letters are all addressed to Adam Trent, at Desert State Mental Hospital, and I can't help but notice the very feminine hand-writing, as I glance at the post date of the first letter: June 13, 2002; and of the second letter: June 13, 2002. Once again gazing over at Sara, I slowly raise an eyebrow. "These are all postdated over a year ago…" I inform her, watching her as she removes a hair brush from the vent, setting it on the dresser in front of her. "It's not just his subconscious. This guy's got stuff buried everywhere…" I add, as I once again make eye contact with her.**

**What the hell is going on around this place…?**

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TO BE CONTINUED 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Thanks again for reading and reviewing, guys! They're both highly appreciated! This chapter is right before the interrogation with Adam, and we're really excited about writing that one! Enjoy!

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I'm not looking forward to having to hear what these letters say. If these were something that Adam was trying to hide, then he was obviously trying to hide them for a reason.

"Dearest angel, I think of you wherever I go," I hear Dr. Dino beginning to read one of the letters. Already I'm getting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "You are my prince, I miss you. Write to me; your only love, Mother."

Wait…these…letters were from Adam's mother? I…didn't even know Adam's mother was still alive. But I can plainly see why Adam was trying to hide these letters; the love that I can sense in that scrap of paper is not maternal, not…normal mother-son love. If Adam was hiding these letters because his mother was incestuous… then that makes perfect sense to me. He wanted to get away from her, not only physically, but mentally as well.

"Another one," Dr. Dino says, setting the first letter aside and grabbing another. Part of me wants to grab those letters and burn them, but the other part of me wants to hear what they say. "Uh… 'It rained today. I thought of that time when you and I got caught in the storm at the lake. The fire… I came home and made your favorite dinner. I even set a place for you…' so on and so forth," she says, setting the second letter aside.

This is not maternal, there's no doubt in my mind about it now. Adam wanted to get rid of the memories of his mother; just get away from her… I can understand.

"That… does not sound maternal to me," I finally say, looking up at Dr. Dino.

She shakes her head and looks down at her desk. "It's not."

**Sitting across from Dr. Dino, I can't help but stare out of the window for a brief moment, because… I have to collect my thoughts. I glanced at Sara as we were walking into the doctor's office, and… I couldn't help but notice that her bra strap—her very black and sexy-looking bra strap—was slightly hanging out of the top of her shirt. _Does she… know that I can see it…? _I wonder to myself, trying not to smile, as I stare at the pouring rain outside. _Focus… seriously, Gil, you have to focus.… and besides… it's not like she is purposely showing it just for you… wait a minute. She's not, right? _I think to myself._ No, of course she's not! Focus!_**

**In any event, the rain is not helping my mood any, and sitting in Dr. Dino's office, listening to the reading of the love letters, just makes me feel even more uncomfortable.**

**Because that's just what they are: love letters. But not your typical love letters, like the one that, say, I would write to Sara, but love letters between a mother and her son. _Wait a minute… _I frown, instantly removing my gaze from the doctor, and staring down at the ground. _Like a love letter that I would write to Sara…? _I think to myself. _Where… did that come from…? _I bite the inside of my lip, swallowing. I'm pretty sure that I don't love Sara… this is just… I don't know what this is, actually.**

**And then Sara's voice rips me back to the conversation, as I hear her say, "That… does not sound maternal to me."**

"**It's not…" Dr. Dino replies, shaking her head.**

"**Incest?" I immediately shoot back, starting to understand what makes Adam tick. This is sick. Really, it is. **

**Dr. Dino glances at me, before replying. "Fully consummated. Mother-son incest is rare and deeply pathological…."**

**Great…. I frown, once again staring at the ground. So we're dealing with a man who is deeply in love with his mother. And not in the good way.**

Maybe… maybe Adam was trying to hide these letters because he didn't want anyone to know that he was in love with his mother. But…it sounds like she was returning the love. I have to make sure.

"Oedipus complex…taken too far?" I ask her.

She quickly shakes her head. "Oedipus… implies son to mother. In this case, the mother was seeking the love and creating the codependence. We call this a Jocasta Complex."

So my first theory was correct… Adam was hiding these to try and rid himself of the memories of his mother. His mother was in love with him, she wanted… an intimate relationship. This relationship was not like a schoolgirl crush like the relationship I have with Gri— …it's not right.

Slowly my mind begins to wander. Grissom… why…doesn't he just tell me how he feels? Would…one kiss even hurt? A kiss, a, a hug…?

"Oedipus' mother," I hear Grissom say. Thank god for that, I was losing myself in Grissom—

Damn.

"When Adam was nine his father died," Dr. Dino explained.

How… how old was I when my father died? Twelve…? Ten…? Eleven…?

"His mother replaced her dead husband with her son," Dr. Dino finished.

"That's gotta mess you up," I say, afterwards realizing just how hypocritical my words sounded. I'm… probably in no better mental health than any of the patients in this facility, what am I saying…?

"Yeah," Dr. Dino nods. "Adam is… schizo-affective, suicidal, and a pathological narcissist," Dr. Dino tells us, completing her list. "When he was a teenager he was unable to retaliate against his mother and…incapable of actual intimacy, so…" she says, pausing as if for dramatic effect. "He started raping women."

My heart immediately sinks deep into my gut. That… that word has always stuck a chord with me. I look down at the ground as if in shame, as if… I'm trying to hide myself from a large crowd of people. I feel… embarrassed.

_No Sara,_ I tell myself, _the entire class is not looking at you. The teacher did not ask you a question. The spotlight is not on you, so… don't make it._

**A Jocasta complex? _Interesting,_ I can't help but think to myself. So Adam may not necessarily love his mother as a lover would, but… she has created a co-dependency, where he feels as if he cannot function unless she is around. That's just… too bad. I quickly lift my eyebrows up, averting my gaze to the ground for a moment so that I can think things through.**

**But rather than listening as intently to Dr. Dino as I should be, I start to think about parents. Why do parents try to harm their children…? I really don't… understand. And then perhaps even more importantly than my train of thought, I remember that Sara is sitting right beside me. Sara, whose mother killed her father; Sara, who was forced to live in foster care. As I stare at the ground, I frown, as my mind continues to wander toward Sara. I feel badly for her that she had to undergo something so traumatizing at such a young age, and I just want to reach out and hug her. But I can't. I know that.**

"**That's got to mess you up," I suddenly hear her say. But what was she responding to? Oh, right… the fact that Adam's father died, and that his mother tried to replace her dead husband with her son. Sick. Very, very sick. **

**Glancing up at Dr. Dino, I begin to listen again. "Yeah. Adam is schizo-affective, suicidal, and a pathological narcissist. When he was a teenager," she continues, "he was unable to retaliate against his mother and incapable of actual intimacy, so ... he started raping women."**

"**Always women?" I ask, getting a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not wanting to risk an actual glance in Sara's general direction, I try to look at her out of the corner of my eye, attempting to figure out if she is okay or not. She has a difficult time whenever rape is mentioned, and… for whatever reason, I just want to make her feel more comfortable. I really do.**

"**Yes," Dr. Dino answers my question. "Which is why I don't think he killed Robbie…" she pointed out.**

**But what about the sexual relationship between Robbie and Adam? Something just isn't adding up…**

Quickly shaking thoughts about rape, and pain, and shame, and embarrassment, and… _him_… out of my mind, I get back to the subject at hand. Letters… Adam's mother… him being incapable of intimacy and retaliation… now it's coming back to me.

"Yes, which is why I don't think he killed Robbie," I hear Dr. Dino answer Grissom's question about whether or not Adam always… raped… women.

"We found Adam's semen in Robbie's bed," I tell her. It makes sense… the only evidence of another person in Robbie's room that I recovered was Adam's semen. So that would place Adam in Robbie's room…and give him opportunity.

"You see, that surprises me," Dr. Dino says, looking over at me with a half-smile as she laughs half-heartedly. "Like…any good psychopath, he rarely veers from his pattern," she says, rubbing her chin in thought. 'Like any good psychopath'…? I'm…not sure I like the way she worded that. "Adam is a…single-celled organism who exists wholly for himself," she tells us. "He must've been getting something tangible in return," she then says.

"What…?" I ask. "Drugs…? Cigarettes?"

"Drugs aren't his issue… and as far as I know he doesn't smoke. Um…"

**_Well… this is no longer getting us anywhere_, I think to myself, frowning. Maybe the artwork can tell us something else important. "So, uh, what can we learn from his artwork?" I ask Dr. Dino, watching her examine the pictures.**

**I still personally believe that the pictures can give us some pretty decent insight into Adam's personality… our creativity often times mirrors our attitudes, so… taking a look at what he has created might tell us a little bit more about what he is thinking.**

**I carefully watch Dr. Dino examine the pictures, as she gives off a short "gaffah"-like sound. "Uh," she finally says, waving her hands in the air. "... He starts with an innocuous object: a tree, a cat, an oboe—all of which he morphs into something deadly. You can see… all of them," she flips the pictures around toward Sara and I, so that we can take a look at them.**

"**So, what should be safe… turns into something unsafe..." I point out, biting my lip. A tree becomes a killing machine; a cat grows spikes; the oboe becomes deadly. In essence, Adam created dark, angry images; images that if were real, could kill. **

"**Mother becomes lover…" Dr. Dino points out.**

**_And aye, there's the rub_… I sigh. A tree becomes dangerous; a cat becomes dangerous; an oboe becomes dangerous; his mother becomes… dangerous?**

_Father becomes monster._

"What…about the mother?" I quickly ask. Get those thoughts out of your mind! I want to scream at myself. "Do you have any idea where she is?"

"She lives near Reno," Dr. Dino told me, shaking her head.

"Based on the postmarks…" I start. "It seems like she stopped writing him." Maybe she can give us some insight on that.

"Every time a letter came, a manic episode followed," She explained. "Then a…severe depression, including one suicide attempt, so…" she said, looking up at both of us. "I started sending the letters back," she said. "Eventually," she tilted her head, "she stopped writing."

Good riddance.

As we're about to get up and walk out of the office, I notice my bra strap is peeking out under my shirt a bit. Damn it, my _black_ bra strap is peeking out under my shirt. Did... Grissom see it? Damn.

...Do I _want_ him to see it?

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TO BE CONTINUED 


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Thanks again to all who reviewed, and we hope you enjoy this new chapter of our interpretation of the interrogation with Adam Trent!

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**It's time. Our conversation with Dr. Dino is over, and it's time. We've examined Adam's room, we've shared our findings with the good doctor, and now… now it's time to speak with Adam himself. Brass should be doing this interview. Hell, even I should be doing this interview. But is he? Am I? No. Sara is.**

**I've given this a lot of thought, and as much as I might regret this particular decision later on, I believe that Sara needs to take the lead on Adam's interview. She is a good criminalist; one of the best in the country, as a matter of fact, and… I really haven't given her a chance to use her instincts on this case. So as much as I would like to interview Adam myself, alone, without Sara being present in the room, and as much as I hate to ask her to speak with someone who I know can potentially harm her, I am going to let her ask the questions. I am going to let her try to find the answers to this puzzle, and I am just going to sit back, and watch…**

…**Unless Adam says or does something to hurt her. Then, Adam Trent will regret the day that he ever met Gilbert Grissom.**

…Why is Grissom letting me lead this interview? It doesn't make sense at all to me. Grissom's always been sort of the over-protective one (which is comforting at the same time), so why would he let me lead the interview with Adam; Adam, the schizo-affective, suicidal, pathological narcissist rapist?

I remember when I first came to Vegas, around the end of year one… the FBI had come to handle the investigation of the Strip Strangler case; oh, how that case continues to haunt me. I fit the victim profile and I was trained in weaponless defense, I could've gotten the guy, I sure as hell wanted to. But Grissom...he was… suggestive. He was worried about me, and he was absolutely furious with me when I chose to go through with the decoy operation despite his disapproval.

…If he was nervous about letting me do something like that, then why is he letting me do this?

Whatever his reasons are… it doesn't matter right now. Right now I need to get inside of Adam Trent's mind.

We're sitting in a room set up by the hospital staff for the interrogation. It's a rather dark room, and… this atmosphere is only helping to add to the nervousness I am feeling right now. Dr. Dino is sitting alone in a corner to ensure our safety as well as Adam's, and he's sitting in the middle of the table on the other side across from Grissom and I. He's attacking his nails once again- is he nervous…? I don't really think so… he looks like he's deep in thought.

I look over at Grissom once for reassurance. …Reassurance? What reassurance do I need, what is he reassuring me of? Am I looking for the glance that he'll shoot my way to tell me everything will be okay, or…?

Suddenly Adam starts to talk.

"Did I…kill him," he says, repeating the question he knows we're going to ask him. "Yes," he answers simply, still biting his nails.

"Why?" I ask him. What is he looking at that's got him so lost in thought? His voice sounds… like he's preoccupied, as if he's zoned-out and isn't really listening to me.

"He was queer," he answers.

"But you had sex with him…" I point out.

That got his attention. Looking up at me, he swallows hard; is he nervous? "No," he says. "He had sex with me. He was the punk."

Why is he looking at me? What, exactly, got his attention? "Was it…consensual?" I ask him. It's strange… I'm asking a rapist if he had consensual sex with someone.

"I don't know," he tells me, swallowing again.

"Okay…" I trail off, looking down at the papers in front of me. Sighing, I ask, "So…then what happened?"

"I took his head and I smashed it into the floor," he says without hesitation, his gaze never faltering.

"And that's how you killed him?" I ask. He simply nods.

I shoot a look at Grissom which he returns. According to Doc Robbins Robbie died of asphyxiation, not blunt-force trauma. Adam's lying… was he covering up for someone, or… is he just lying altogether.

"What, you don't believe me?" Adam asks, inhaling sharply.

I quickly turn my head to look back at him. "I'm just…wondering if that's how you killed him…"

"Yes. Yes, I'm saying this and this is true. And if you don't believe me just look in the bucket in the latrine," he says.

I raise an eyebrow and look back over at Grissom.

"Okay!" he suddenly says. He sounds… paranoid. He wants us to believe him and he's afraid that we won't. "Do you really want to know why I killed him?" he then asks me, a slight frown on his face.

"Yes," I simply tell him.

He's biting his nails again, tilting his head as he looks up at me. I stare straight at him, trying to search for… well, actually, what am I searching for in a crazed rapist's eyes? The truth, I tell myself.

He hasn't looked at Grissom once, why hasn't he looked at Grissom? I notice Adam's eyes slowly descend down from my face, looking down at something else…

Oh my god.

He's raping me with his eyes.

I…I can feel it, and…and yet…he isn't actually doing anything.

Snap out of it, Sara! He's just looking at you! He's not doing anything!

Oh god…I…I can feel his hands…

Quit touching me!

"It's because I'm crazy." Suddenly Adam's voice brings me back to Earth. He's looking over at me and he's stopped biting his nails now. He has that same crazed look in his eyes I noticed the first time I saw him.

The ball is in Adam's court; this entire interrogation has turned upside-down. He has the power.

And it's horrifying.

**Sitting beside Sara, I can't help but once again rethink my decision to allow her to conduct the interview with Adam; Adam is a convicted rapist, and here I am, allowing her to sit across from him. Does my decision to let her conduct the actual interview make me as bad as the FBI agents who asked Sara to act as a decoy in the Strip Strangler case? Because I know that Adam will respond to Sara more than he'll respond to me, and a part of me wonders if that little fact influenced my decision to let her take the lead on this one. If so, then… well, I won't forgive myself for anything that may or may not happen to her, or for any discomfort that she might end up feeling.**

**Before Sara asks her first question, however, she glances over in my direction, as if seeking reassurance that everything will be okay. I want to tell her that she'll be fine, and that she has absolutely nothing to worry about, but I understand that I cannot utter those words. Doing so would compromise her authority during the interview, and I can't have that. Adam must know, at all times, that Sara is in charge. So I stare at Adam, and do not return Sara's gaze. So now I have not only put her in a potentially harmful situation, but I have withheld my reassurances from her, as well. What kind of a supervisor am I? And perhaps more importantly, what kind of a man am I?**

**Still carefully observing Adam, I want to frown at his nail biting. _Is he nervous? _I ask myself. Although nail biting is a sign of nervousness, I do not believe that he is actually nervous. No, I just think that he is preoccupied… with… well, Sara.**

"**Did I kill him?" Adam flatly asks Sara. Because obviously, he is not talking to me. In fact, his gaze is rooted on Sara, and he refuses to look at me. "Yes." **

"**Why?" Sara immediately shoots back.**

**_Good for you, Sara,_ I want to tell her. _Good for you. You're calm, you're collected, you're with it. Hang in there. _Watching Adam, I once again want to frown, as I pick up on his behaviorisms. He appears to be slightly dazed, not really focusing on what Sara is asking him, but rather, on Sara herself. **

"**He was queer…" Adam answers her.**

"**But…you had sex with him…" she points out.**

**Adam immediately stops biting his nails, as his head snaps up to glance at her. _Jesus. Is he… is he checking her out? What's he doing? _Adam's eyes are now focused, and I truly believe that he is imagining something that he shouldn't be imagining; something that no one should be imagining. _I shouldn't be letting her do this,_ I once again think to myself. _This was a mistake. An absolute mistake._**

"**No. He had sex with me. He was the punk," Adam states, bringing me back to the interview.**

"**Was it consensual?" Sara asks him.**

**She looks so innocent; she sounds so innocent. And God help me, Adam is really staring at her. That schizo-affective, suicidal, pathological narcissist rapist, won't take his eyes off of Sara, and I know what he is doing in his mind; and he's not doing it how a lover would do it. He's envisioning it graphically, and brutally, and… I don't even want to think about what is really going through his mind.**

"**I don't know," he quickly replies.**

**It is clear to me that Adam no longer cares what he is actually saying. He knows whether or not it was consensual. He just… wants to prolong the interview. He wants to make Sara ask him more questions, so that he can continue to look at her. And he knows that she will continue to pry, like any good CSI would, until she gets the answers that she needs.**

"**So… why did you do it?" she asks him, not giving up.**

"**I don't know."**

**_Yes you do! _I want to yell at him. _You know exactly why you did it, and get your damn eyes off of her!_**

"**Okay… So then what happened?" Sara calmly asks him.**

**I personally wonder how she can still be so calm. _You're doing well, Sara. Keep it up! _I inwardly praise her.**

"**I took his head and I smashed it into the floor," he informs her.**

**But that's not right. It can't be. Noticing Sara turn to look at me, I look back, thankful that we are once again both on the same page. Adam Trent is not telling the whole truth. He is either covering up for someone else, or there is more to the story that he is just not telling us.**

**Taking a deep breath, Adam notices Sara and I looking at one another, and begins to get a little bit agitated. "What? You don't believe me?"**

**_Well, that's certainly interesting. Why does Adam need Sara to believe him? Why does he need to prove to her that he is right? _I ask myself.**

**Sara glances back at Adam, before responding to his question. "I'm just wondering if that's how you killed him."**

**And then it hits me. Sara is responding to his question. Adam has effectively taken control of the interview, by getting Sara to reply to him.**

"**Yes. I'm saying this and this is true. And if you don't believe me, just look in the bucket in the latrine," Adam anxiously tells her.**

**_The bucket in the latrine…?_ Sara again looks at me, and I flick my eyes in her direction. I want to give her some sort of encouragement to continue, but I don't have much to give right now. She's just… doing so well, and… I feel like she could very possibly break the case.**

**So when she looks back at Adam, I am totally unprepared for what happens next. **

"**Do you really want to know why I killed him?" Adam asks her.**

**_Don't say it, Sara. Don't say yes…_ I try to warn her. _It will give him even more power over this interview… and over you._**

"**Yes," Sara simply replies.**

**And that's when I see it. Adam's gaze begins at her face, slowly moving down to her chest, as if he is once again undressing her with his eyes. My mind screams for him to stop, but of course, he can't hear me.**

"**It's because I'm crazy," Adam states.**

**And so am I. Because although Adam did not just physically rape Sara, he sure as hell mentally raped her. She knows it, I know it, and Adam knows it. _Damn, I was a fool. I never should have let her lead this interview._**

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TO BE CONTINUED 


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Thanks to all who've been reading and reviewing; feedback is greatly appreciated! Behold the nurses' station chapter!

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**The interview really angered me. I still can't believe that Adam Trent managed to take control of the conversation, and I will absolutely never forgive myself for allowing him to mentally rape Sara like that. What kind of a supervisor am I, to allow such a thing to occur? I should have stepped in; I should have put my foot down, and I should have done the interview for her.**

**But I didn't, and Sara paid the price for my stupidity; a price that was just too high to pay, in my honest opinion.**

**Up until now, I have allowed Sara to walk ahead of me while in the hospital; she will no longer do so. Up until now, I have allowed Sara to work solo on Robbie's case; that will no longer happen. And up until now, I have let Sara do most of the talking; not any more.**

**I am going to protect Sara. She is my responsibility, and I will keep her safe.**

We found underwear in the bucket in the latrine, as directed by Adam, and now Grissom and I have been granted access to the nurses' station. A part of me wants to scream bloody murder and bolt for the door, but the other part of me tells me to stay. I'm not that helpless…and I'm not exactly a coward. I've got to prove to myself that I can beat this… he can't win. I won't let him.

And besides- Grissom's here, right?

With my back to the door I know Grissom will be able to see if anyone tries to come in, so at the moment I'm not worried. Currently looking over the desk of Nurse McKay, my eyes scan the area for anything out of the ordinary. Just as I think I'll find nothing of interest, I notice something- it's a photograph. The photograph Nurse McKay got from Robbie in group therapy, perhaps? A part of me wonders, however, why she would still have it- why not give it back? I don't exactly think the time-out method works on mental patients.

"This must be the photo Nurse McKay confiscated from Robbie in group… the missing half?" I think aloud, turning to look at Grissom. Noting the blue tape at the top, I immediately connect it to the tape I found first processing his room. "I found blue tape in Robbie's room," I tell him, turning around to get a better look at the picture. "Kind of looks like Adam," I say, noticing the little boy in the picture for the first time. Curly hair…brown eyes. It's…strange seeing Adam with a smile on his face and to notice the absence of biting his nails.

"Where would Robbie get a picture of Adam?" Grissom asks me, turning to look back at Nurse Faber's desk area.

"Well…" I start, turning to look back over at him. "They were having sex," I point out. And then turning back to Nurse McKay's desk I find a small heart-shaped rock- a paperweight, maybe- with the letters 'J+A' etched into it painted over in black. Whose name starts with a 'J'…? What was Nurse McKay's name? Does this mean something plus…Adam, maybe?

Putting the small rock down, I find myself looking back at the photograph of Adam once again. How old was Adam when this picture was taken…? He doesn't look very old to me- seven, maybe, at the oldest? Then again, he could even be twelve in this picture; I'm not exactly one to judge about kids' age. A part of me thinks he was younger than nine, though, because he looks so happy in this picture. According to Dr. Dino, Adam's father died when he was nine, and that was when his mother replaced her dead husband with her son…

And that messes you up.

**Sara and I begin processing the nurses' station. She's got her back to the door, but I don't think much about it; I'm behind her, and I won't let anyone dangerous wander into the room. She'll be safe.**

**Thumbing through a file on one of the desks, I try to find the clue that will end this case, and which will allow us to return back to the lab in order to solve Robbie's murder.**

**While I am looking through the file, Sara, who had been searching through Nurse McKay's desk, starts talking. "This must be the photo that Nurse McKay confiscated from Robbie in group," she tells me, forcing me to look in her direction. I'm actually a little bit curious about this picture, I have to admit. What is so important about it that Robbie had to bring it to group? "The missing half? I found blue tape in Robbie's room," Sara continues. "Kind of looks like Adam."**

**And I frown; I don't quite understand how that could even be possible. "Where would Robbie get a picture of Adam?" I ask Sara, turning back to the files on the desk in front of me.**

"**Well, they were having sex," Sara reminds me. Again, she makes a good point. Lovers often times carry a picture of their significant other, and despite their current address, I highly doubt that Robbie and Adam would be any different from everyone else.**

**After a moment, I toss down the folders, ready to start looking through some of the desk drawers. Although the files themselves are fairly informative, and perhaps even helpful, I am curious to see what else the locked desks have to tell us.**

**Slightly pulling on a drawer, I frown, noting that it won't budge. Locked. This doesn't really surprise me, though; after all, the nurses deal with highly sensitive and confidential information on a daily basis. But that being said, I'd still like to see what is inside of the locked drawers. Moving over a step, I jiggle another drawer, frowning. Also locked.**

**And now I have a dilemma: Sara and I need to know what is in the drawers. Finding all of the information is a part of our job, and having all of the facts pertaining to the case at hand is an important precursor to helping us understand what is going on around any given crime scene...**

…**And yet, I really do not want to leave Sara here all by herself. We're still in a state mental institution, where the patients have the ability to roam free. On one hand, I don't want her to get attacked, while on the other hand, we have questions that we want answers to.**

**Standing up, I turn to look at the door. "I'm going to find someone who can open these drawers," I finally tell her, taking off my gloves. _There are guards around_, I think about adding. _You'll be safe_. But I don't say a word.**

**  
Because I know that Sara will be fine.**

As I continue to scan the items on the desks, I can hear Grissom trying to open the drawers behind me, which really has become sort of a white noise. In a sense it's actually reassuring; it tells me that he's still here with me. My scope of Nurse McKay's desk is far from finished, but for some reason I find myself looking back at the photograph of Adam, something seemingly mystifying about this tiny piece of paper.

"I'm going to go find someone who can open these drawers," I hear Grissom say. Now, normally I would've objected to this and probably would've either gone with him or screamed and clung to his leg like a dog, but I was too caught-up in that damn photo to think twice about it.

"Okay," I automatically answered, actually not really listening to what he said. Why am I still looking at this picture…? We've established that it's a photograph of Adam when he was a kid, so what am I looking for? Looking at this picture I can't help but think back to my own childhood. Adam looks so happy in this picture… but I know he was really in the same boat I was. The smiles stopped for him after his father died… and the smiles stopped for me when I turned six and my father came into my room every night.

I can't help but feel sorry for him in a way. At the moment I've forgotten everything bad he's done- his multiple rapes, how he… mentally raped me in the interview. All I see is a scared little boy sitting in a corner, despite his bloody cuticles still biting his nails in fear of his mother coming back.

Still so caught-up in that god-forsaken picture, I failed to notice that someone had slipped into the room. That was, however, until they spoke… and that sound- I swear- was one of the most-horrifying sounds ever to fill my ears in my entire life.

"Hey."

Nails on a chalkboard; it's _him_. Suddenly a small flame of fear begins to grow inside of me, along with panic. Where's Grissom? When did he leave; _why_ did he leave?

I look at Adam, watching as he walks into the room, keeping his gaze directed at me. Slowly he closes the door, never tearing his eyes away from me as he does so. Damn it, he's closing the door; I don't want him to close the door!

"Are you a spiritual person?" he asks me.

I think I heard the lock click. It's clear to me what his intentions are.

"Sometimes," I try to reply as calmly as possible. _Assess the situation, Sara, don't freak out. That's what he wants. Compose yourself and whatever you do… don't let him know how scared you are,_ I try to tell myself. I turn so that I'm facing him completely; I don't want to leave any part of myself in the line of fire.

"Do you believe that everything happens for a reason?" he asks me, slowly moving closer and closer to me. This just causes me to instinctively move back toward the cabinets. I felt like I was a kid again, hiding in my closet because my dad was home earlier than expected. "That bad things happen to teach us a karmic lesson?" he continues.

Is… he saying that what he's about to do to me… is to teach me a lesson?

Slowly I reach behind myself- emphasis on slowly. I don't want to do anything to lead him onto what I'm doing, and I don't want to panic him. Reaching behind me and feeling around the desk, my fingers latch onto something long and skinny- it's a syringe, I deduct. Only… it's no longer a syringe. It's a knife. I'm no longer myself- I'm _her_. And Adam's no longer Adam Trent- he's my father.

"You know, maybe all our problems can be cured by… tuning into a higher frequency," Adam suggests. I can only wonder what he means exactly by that. "There's this one guy I read; he thinks that illness, anxiety, and fear all occur when… someone's vibrating at ten thousand cycles a second," he informs me. Now he's much too close to me.

Nodding slowly to pretend that I'm listening, I quickly uncap the syringe behind my back and lash out at him. I wonder if this must be how my mother felt when she killed my father. But this is me, and I can't let Adam overpower me, I can't let him beat me. I'm not weak and helpless, and I will not become another one of his nameless victims.

Unfortunately, that was what Adam was hoping for. He wanted me to fight back.

And I should've known.

As soon as I made a move to try and stab him with the needle, he springs into action; I can tell he's getting more and more excited with each move I make. Damn it, the bastard's excited. He quickly moves so that I'm standing in front of him and the syringe falls to the floor as he wraps his arms around my shoulders. For all it was worth I struggled, though I now realize I probably shouldn't have. I just ended up exhausting myself, and I need my strength- _All_ of my strength.

He wrestles me to the floor and now I really start to panic. If he gets me on my back…

No. No, he's not going to do that!

I try to elbow him to free myself but he's holding onto me too tight. Despite his strong grip I keep my hands on his arm in some feign hope that his grip will loosen allowing me to free myself. I can feel his hands on me, oh god I can feel his hands on me. I feel something against my back… I want to gag. His arms' wrapped around my shoulders, unobtrusively touching my chest as he reaches into his pocket to get something. What is he getting? I don't want to know.

Finally I see it- it's a hardened ceramic piece of clay and he holds it against my throat. Is this how I'm going to die…? Is this really what I've been living for all these years? 

"If they could all just get up to a hundred cycles a second, they'd be in the realm of sound, light, and spirit and everything would be just fine, right?" Adam asks me, holding onto me even tighter as I try and free myself.

Slowly I nod, not knowing what else to do. My life is in his hands… and the ball is once again in Adam's court. "Yeah."

"You know what I think?" he asks me. "I think I'm just vibrating at the wrong frequency." Translation: There's nothing wrong with me.

Yes there is! I want to scream. I struggle against him once more, afraid of what he's going to do next.

"Don't," he warns me, pushing the clay piece against my neck even harder.

"It's okay," I reassure him. Why am I reassuring him?

He's got me right where he wants me… and I can't stop him.

**As I leave the nurses' station, I once again think about turning back. I can't help but notice that I am about to leave Sara alone, unarmed, in a place where there are criminally insane and sexually violent predators roaming free. I am slightly disturbed by this notion, until I remember the fact that Sara actually told me that it was okay for me to leave, without even looking up from the evidence that she had been analyzing. Her reaction means that I am not such a terrible supervisor, right? She could have asked me to stay with her, had she wanted me to, or she could have offered to come with me. She could have even offered to go in my place, leaving me by myself in the nurses' station, rather than herself. But the fact of the matter is that Sara did none of those things; she told me that it was okay for me to go, and so I did. I left her alone, unarmed, in a place where there is at least one crazed killer running free. I can't help but wonder if I'm being an unenlightened idiot.**

**Except the truth is that now I am a little bit worried about Sara. As I hear my footsteps echoing down the length of the hallway—the endless hallway—my mind once begins to wander. Regardless of the fact that I am leaving her alone, I want her to be safe, and every step that I take, leads me further and further away from her, and further and further away from allowing me to keep protect her.**

**Picking up my speed—just in case—I approach a security guard at the end of the hallway, with the intent of asking him to help me locate someone who can unlock the desks in the nurses' station for us. He points me toward another open door, and before walking through it, I hesitate for a brief moment; now, I am not only leaving Sara alone in the nurses' station, but I am also leaving her alone in this hallway; well, except for the lone security guard, I immediately remind myself. Sighing, I hesitantly shuffle toward the door, glancing over my shoulder at the security guard once more, before silently walking through the door. I vow to return to Sara as quickly as possible.**

**And the only other thought that I have running through my mind is that I'd better not be making a big mistake, and that she better be unharmed when I finally return to her side.**

**A couple of minutes later, I shuffle back down the hallway, following one of the orderlies. I haven't been gone for very long, so I know that Sara will be okay. At least I hope that she will be okay, anyhow. Nearing the nurses' station, I frown, trying not to feel nervous. There is absolutely nothing to feel nervous about, really. I haven't actually been gone long enough for something bad to happen. **

**So why is it that when we reach the nurses' station, the door is closed? I left the door open; I know that I did, and… now it's closed. The orderly jiggles the lock, and all of a sudden, I know that one of my worst nightmares is about to come true: one of my criminalists—Sara, no less—is in trouble, and this time, it is all my fault.**

**Quickly waltzing around the orderly, I rest my hands on the window, looking through the glass. My heart stops, as my fears are confirmed. I see Sara, held against her will, with Adam Trent holding something sharp against her neck. _Dear God_, I think to myself. _Oh dear God, what have I done?_**

His hands are on me, _he's_ on me and I can't make him stop. He's rough just like my father was.

_"I'm gonna get you, Sara!"_

Damn it, no, not right now… no, I can't be having these stupid thoughts now…

_"Daddy, stop it, you're scaring me!"_

No, no, no, no…

_"Come on sweetheart- it's just a little game, I promise!"_

"Do you think I'm smart?" Adam asks me, beginning to cry. Adam's voice brings me back to reality. Why is he crying? He has no reason to cry, he's got me right where he wants me and I have no way out…just like my father.

"Yeah," I tell him. Even though I want to say no, the sharp clay pressed against my neck reminds me that I don't have much of a choice. How am I supposed to beat him…? How did… Mom beat Dad?

"Yeah?" he asks me. And then that's when I noticed him standing in the window- Grissom. He looks… I don't know how to describe the way he looks. He's staring at me through the window with wide eyes, looking as terrified as I must look right now. I don't want to die, and I don't want Adam to touch me like this!

But I'm going to die here. I can already see it now; Catherine, Nick, Warrick and Greg would come in with their kits. Grissom would probably be with Doc Robbins in my autopsy. There would be a pool of my blood all over the floor; a void where my body was. The ALS would bring up traces of semen and pulled-out hair. I would've died from the wound to my neck- I'd bleed out. I'd stare up at Grissom on the metal slab in the morgue with cold, lifeless eyes.

Just like Debbie Marlin.

"Uh-huh," I assure Adam once more as Grissom keeps his gaze directed at me. I'm absolutely terrified, and all the weaponless-defense training in the world couldn't have prepared me for the day I actually need it. I'm close to tears now; he's going to do it, he's touching me and he's going to kill me and there's nothing I can do or say to stop him without just inadvertently turning him on even more.

Grissom, make him stop!

**Glancing through the tiny window, I feel like my heart can't decide whether it wants to beat so fast that it nearly leaps out of my chest, or whether it just wants to stop all together from sheer panic and worry... **

…**Because the truth of the matter is that I am terrified for Sara. She is obviously scared out of her mind, and why shouldn't she be? She is pressed between the legs of a man who desperately wants to rape her, and who has his arms around her chest, with something that looks like a ceramic knife held to her neck. Although I note that Adam is crying, I return my complete attention to Sara, watching her every move. She seems to be answering question after question posed by Adam—questions and answers that I cannot hear—, and I have no idea how she is managing to do so; she has to be absolutely terrified, and I know that it is hard to concentrate on something when you are scared to death. _Death. Sara is not going to die. She won't._**

**With my hands pressed against the window, I try to remain calm for Sara's sake when I notice her looking at me, as I plead with the orderly to open the door. "Oh, dear God," I say, somehow keeping my voice calm and steady, with only my words indicating how truly concerned I really am for her safety. "Open the door," I order the other man, swallowing, as I helplessly watch Adam once again press the ceramic knife to Sara's throat.**

**Fumbling with the keys, the orderly frowns, glancing at me for a brief moment. "I can't," he tells me. "I don't have the right key!"**

"**Just open it," I repeat, oddly remaining quiet, and refusing to take my gaze off of Sara. A part of my brain realizes that this is the first time that I have ever asked someone to do something possibly out of his or her control, using irrationality, rather than rationality, to guide my thoughts and actions. But this is Sara that we are talking about, and the situation is getting worse and worse by every passing moment. I know that if the orderly takes any longer to unlock the door, Sara could possibly lose her life, and that is not an option that I am willing to deal with.**

**Listening to the keys jangling once again, I stare through the window, wanting to scream at what I am witnessing. The air is thick with fear and tension, and I am once again struck with frustration over not being able to help Sara. _Damn_, I yell at myself. _Why did you ever leave her alone? She's going through this nightmare, because you left her alone!_**

"**Please, open the door," I repeat for the third time in as many seconds, as I notice Adam becoming more and more agitated. My worry only increases tenfold, when he notices that I may gaze is riveted to Sara's face.**

Grissom's saying something- I can see his lips moving... but what is he saying? Oh, what I would give to be able to hear his voice right now. I have to settle for just exchanging terrified glances at him for now, though, as my life is in the hands of a psychotic rapist.

Looking at Grissom for a minute, I note that he looks strangely calm... he's telling with his eyes that everything will be okay. _How...?_ I try to ask him with my eyes. _How will everything be okay...?_ His response is just a firm, steady glance my way. That enough was reassurance to me that I would make it out of here.

And looking at Grissom, the will to fight grows stronger inside of me. I _do_ have a reason to live, and I can't let Adam hurt me. I cannot and I will not let him get what it is that he wants.

Suddenly Adam starts to speak again; damn it, he's noticed that Grissom and I are looking at each other, and obviously he doesn't like that.

"Don't you move a muscle," Adam hisses, looking over at Grissom as if to warn him as well. "I will grind you, you bitch, you hear me?" he asks me harshly.

...Grind me? Grind me with what? Grind..._what_ with what?

I don't want to know. Even though I want to shake him off of me, like I'm a shaggy dog after a bath, I manage to nod slowly and look down at the floor for fear of him snapping. One slash and I'm dead; my life is in his hands. Damn it, I want to look at Grissom!

"Do not look at them!" Adam tells me.

"Okay," I assure him, keeping my eyes fixed on the cold linoleum floor I'm sitting on.

"You keep your eyes on the floor!" he yells. He's enjoying this power that he has over me at the moment; the lights and alarms flashing and beeping are all part of his game. He has me and this is what he wants. He wants an audience, he wants to show these people just what he's capable of. I'm his test subject.

**Once again, I am left with the desire to tell Sara that everything will be okay; to ignore the rapist sitting behind her, and to focus her attention on me. _You'll make it through this alive, Sara_, I desperately want to tell her with my words, settling on trying to convey that particular message with my steady gaze. For a moment, my efforts seem to work, as Sara visibly calms down—or at least stops struggling against Adam's grip, long enough to breathe.**

**But things start to go from bad to worse, as Adam becomes increasingly unstable. He still has her tightly pressed between his legs, his arms wrapped around her body, and the knife pressed into the side of her throat. Now, however, he is even more agitated and frantic, yelling at Sara, while glancing at me. "Don't you move a muscle!" he tells her. "I will grind you, you bitch. You hear me?"**

**Sara nods, immediately reverting her gaze to the floor, the pained expression once again appearing on her face. "Okay," she manages to get out, the fear extremely evident in her voice.**

**_God, Sara,_ I think to myself. _Oh, dear God. _And then after a split second, _Yes, I hear you, Adam. But don't you dare hurt her. And don't you talk about grinding anything, anywhere, against—or even near—her body. If you touch her any further than you already are, or if you hurt her any more than you already are, so help me God, you will live to regret the moment that you entered that nurses' station. In fact, you should already be regretting that particular moment in your sorry little life, because I will get you for this. I will find the evidence, and I will have you thrown into jail so fast, that you won't have any idea what hit you._**

**As the bells, whistles, and lights start to flash throughout the hallway, Adam's words pull me out of my reverie. "Do not look at them!" he practically hisses at Sara, clenching her even more tightly. "You keep your eyes on the floor!" _But why? _I wonder to myself. _Why can't she look at me? Does he want her as scared as possible? What harm can her looking at me, and I at her, possible cause?_**

**I do not have the opportunity to think about this any further, as I watch Sara comply. She has no choice but to listen to Adam, and at this point, I just want her to live; I want her to do anything that she can possibly do, to get out of this situation in one piece.**

**All of a sudden, I slightly jump, as Nurse McKay comes running down the hallway, immediately pressing her hands tightly against the glass the moment that she reaches the nurses' station. "Wait!" she screams, startling me. _Wait? What does she want him to wait for? _And aside from being a nurse at the hospital, why does she look so anguished? Her anguish does not appear to be for Sara, I can't help but notice. _In fact, she attention is completely focused on Adam. Why is that?_**

**Once again watching Sara and Adam, I take note of his pained expression. _Does he not like Nurse McKay?_**

"**Adam!" McKay shouts at him.**

**And that does it; Adam goes wild, ignoring Sara, and immediately loosening his grip on her body. Pointing the ceramic piece at the nurse, he stands up, finally releasing Sara. "You! You, go away!" he yells at Nurse McKay.**

**_Get out of there, Sara. Run! He's letting you go! Just get out of there, before he does something else to hurt you. Please_, I want to tell her. _Please, just go, before he changes his mind!_**

Adam seems extremely terrified that Nurse McKay is here, but for me at this moment she appearing is a gift from god. I feel his grip loosening as he notices she's there. Once his full attention has been fixed on Nurse McKay, I elbow Adam- almost shuddering as his hand brushes against me for one final time- and grunt in both anger and fear as I bolt toward the door, crawling on all fours.

As if on cue the door is thrown open and I plow through it, running as fast as I can to get out of there. That room- no, this place- is suffocating me, and there's no way out. I completely ignore Grissom as I walk down a long hallway; I want to be as far away from other people as possible at the moment. I don't give a damn about anyone else right now. I'm spinning out of control and I can't stop myself.

Finally reaching the end of the hallway, I let out all of my anger, fear, and a frustration by slamming my hands against the gated window. How could I have been so stupid? I was absolutely terrified in there! I gave him the upper edge! I let him intimidate me, and I let him use me as some tool for his amusement!

Resting my head against the gated window, I look through the glass and watch the rain drip down. I'm trapped. Maybe I deserve this; I was stupid. I should've followed Grissom to go get the keys to unlock the cabinets in the nurses' station, not stayed there and practically just ask for something like this to happen.

This must be similar to how staying at this place was for my mother. I bet she felt so vulnerable, insecure, and scared- no, terrified- of other people.

I don't want anyone to so much as shoot a glance my way at the moment. I need to calm down or I'm going to lose myself for good... and I can't afford to let that happen.

**I once again find myself looking on helplessly, as Sara elbows Adam in the stomach, knocking him over. _Good job, _I want to tell her, as she uses Nurse McKay's presence as a distraction to run toward the door of the room. Before I even have a chance to process the fact that she is escaping, however, my eyes widen, as I observe Adam lurch to his feet, glaring at Nurse McKay, and then immediately slicing his neck open with the piece of pottery. _I can't… I can't believe that he just did that! That's… I can't believe it!_**

**I feel like I am stuck in some bad Stephen King horror movie, with the flashing lights and the sirens contributing to the surreal feeling of what is going on around me. Everything feels like it is moving in slow motion, and my anxiety is only intensifying as things unravel even more.**

"**Adam! Stop!" Nurse McKay shouts, as Sara rushes past her, ignoring everyone—including myself.**

**I watch Sara retreat down the hallway, before Nurse McKay's voice brings me back to what is going on in the nurses' station. "Get a medic in here!" she almost cries.**

**I watch for a moment, and observe the orderly and the guard trying to hold Adam down, as he also cries. "Hold still," the guard orders him. "Apply some pressure," he tells his colleagues.**

**Nurse McKay immediately moves into the nurses' station, kneeling beside the three other people, pressing her hand against Adam's neck. God help me, I watch for a moment, realizing that it is not Adam whom I care about; I am more concerned with Sara, and I want to know how she is doing.**

**Returning my attention to her, I silently watch as she struggles to reach the end of the hallway, where she throws her hands against the gated window in a fit of panic, or desperation, or even just raw fear; right now, there is no doubt in my mind that she is shaky, terrified, and barely keeping it together. I want to help her; I really do, except… I don't know what to say, or what to do, in order to make her feel better.**

"**Where is it? Where is it?" Nurse McKay shouts. _Where's what? I don't care where it is, whatever you're talking about!_**

**Still watching Sara at the end of the hallway, I resist the urge to walk to her side, and hold her. She has her head on the window, and she still looks terrified, and… there is nothing that I can do to help her; yet, that is.**

**Still watching Sara, but listening to what is taking place in the nurses' station, I frown. Adam is still crying, and Nurse McKay is yelling about needing help in there. _Well you know what? _I want to shout at her. _I need help out here, too. Sara needs help. And right now, Sara is more important to me than some sick, kidnapping, rapist bastard._**

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TO BE CONTINUED 


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